Temptation – Devika Mathur

I know the formations when I had your face close to my lips. voids went flickering with aerospace dissolved in the hymns of my carrot eyes I tore up the blatant sky that rummage your body and your smell, for I sleep with my eyes dipped in your presence. Soft balls of cotton inside thundering […]

Temptation – Devika Mathur

Oranges

Painting Composition Tips for Beginners | How To Create Bolder ...

There is a way to eat fruits.
The bites, cuts, peeling discloses a lot about the process,
about manifestations, prayers.

The layers are a cryptic code,
defining a particular gender.
What do you name Oranges?
A blossom of Goddess or the sweat of a man?

The tender skin hides the juices
of fervor and desires

step 1: Do not gulp it easily, it might choke you.
Step 2: Observe the underlying dots & thickness of the zest.

Step 3: Divide it into a group for easy naked observation.
Step 4: Rub the Albedo.
Step 5: Open the part and drink the nectar.
( Do not hesitate to sprinkle the skin on the face)

Splash,
the flavoring chemicals begin to revolve
& this is how it falls inside your mouth
with a sky of teak words,
creating lust with teeth.

There is a way to eat Oranges
with harmony dancing.


Inspire after reading Figs- D.H Lawrence

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A prayer to hope

Bijay Parida - Krishna Comes to Persuade Radha (Geru) @ The ...

Cities left like empty vases,
soundless minds,
a spot once full
looks ghastly.

Run, run, run
to the places unknown
hiding beneath the carcass of nature,

Sit, observe and run
to the places that are quiet now.

Learn from the two-fold mystery of God,
they do it like a yard spinning.
Do not fear,
this pool is a rubber band,
the more you stretch, the more it shall get you.

Clench the fist of the thing you see next now,
yes, a rope,
a pill,
a prayer,
but do not stop.
you have to live like a sussurous hymn.


Wrote after the super cyclone- Amphan.

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How bad is my poetry?

I do not write today to hold the things leaking
or to slip across the rooms with fever.
No.
I do not write to mourn the sunburn of humankind,
the lips are already pale, i do not wish to write another metaphor too.
Things that have way, will escape anyhow
and so is my today’s poetry.
It has no sense maybe,
no remorse floating
but i must assure you, I do not write to hold your breath even.

I announce I am rather happy
but then
you might feel my imagery too strong
for I use things too harshly
for i use things in a weird Ethiopian mimic

But the mind does not halt
it will shout
and then you will have
some iterations again, too many fancy laces spread.
Your mind will be inundated with countless meanings of it
and then
you will turn everything to me
for i am the one producing,
collapsing
exhilarating
dying
in ways only unknown here
It is Summer here
the sun will come up and soak in my leaflets
the scribbled ink
the detached sonnets from a stranger.

Everything will die
and yet I might not speak of it
for my words are too fancy for you.

Through the Front Door by Devika Mathur (MY FRONT DOOR Series)

Published On Silver Birch Press

Silver Birch Press

mathur 1Through the Front Door
by Devika Mathur

I have a wooden structure that looks after me,
a thick shield of elastic worries,
a poet’s mind locked inside the carving,
I often stare at my front door with a madness slapping across the air,
the room stands empty with a fever of different music
and a lullaby of painted comfort stands there
disguised as this door.
My left arm often collides with the knob,
strange to me, I see myself through different holes of the door,
I eat my sins as I perceive my mind through it.
This door talks to me during vacant nights
I remember a visitor coming once and praising the carving of this front door,
I did not listen to any of it
I had my own notion of things floating through its hole,
the swollen memories of the past, the bruises I had, the velvet dreams…

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The face of a woman

Model Lexi Boling is styled by Carolyn Murphy in pure femininity for 'Blithe Spirit'. Photographer Sebastian Sabal-Bruce is behind the lens for Porter Magazine #26 Summer 2018./ Hair by Edward Lampley; makeup by Allie Smith.

I imagine the day like a face of a woman,
the mornings so much defined
with exposures and brightness,
polaroids of crimson sky
and the heaviness comes like her mind,
i can paint this lady on my canvas,

yawns in the afternoons,
doping shadows
watching the food vividly left in the kitchen
she knows nobody
but a raisin stuck to her mouth

The flower would lust water by evening
and the lady would nurture it,
each color so distinct,
each seed – a subservience
each leaf unfolding unique stories

by night, light fades away
into a shade of something darker
of gentle strokes disappearing
flooding her mouth, her memories with aesthetics.

The heaviness puts her arm into a state of nostalgia
a perfect blend of papers & ink.
But then we know how things end
with a flustered love for trees,
half filled glass of all things love.z


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The Awakening

1950s Unlimited

Tablecloth,
wet bedsheets,
branches/ twigs entangled
between the phosphorous skin of ours.

Circles of slow breaths
sighs,
deeper of magenta blush
The months become cold.
almost nostalgic,
fever rushing through veins
& chills of hypnosis

against the walls,
on the kitchen slab
we spread our colours
while the black night absorbs our love
through the static throat

But then…
then, then, then,
I collapse
here on your pencil neck
only to watch the mornings again
constant motion, blurring the hands in the sun.

April

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And just like that
between the chorus of the bruised sky,
I slip my set of auburn love.
Sediments of galaxies and rivers
entwined between my outgrown fingers.
Seduction is a way of swimming across your mind, half awake.

These tall trees
perform tensions, fiction,
crickets squeaking,
and a layer of loneliness shifts to the sea of the blank river,

I slide my head against your chest,
the ivory garland of future seasons,
the whistling of galaxies
Bluebells swinging in the thunder of our sheets.

My body shuddering like a torn cloth
arms howling in the wild air.
We lick each other,
a chant for dripping lust
and here I become full and warm.

It is past April
empty corridors of dreams
and I swell upon the memory of
blank sheets,
rattling sky.


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My work on Spillwords was published here.

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Of Sickness

of moment so despair
a thing i learn about a crooked poetry
my face a sudden elastic string.

Of death
these moments stich a corollary upon my backbone,
stripes so painfully black.

an ache to put metaphors with,
Madness unleashed from the boundaries of my skull
red, uneven, scathed,

women in my room speak of pain more than the patients in the hospitals
a deep blue sapphire cotton pain
splitting throat.

The air wet and humid
of tears and sickness
a dead sky lies under my lids.

I remain quiet, numb, observing like a child.


 

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Published on Olive Skins

The Poetic Elixir

A day with an illness.

Earlier I wrote every day about almost everything
now I do not.
I wait for the paper to drain all the sorrow.
The filtered content then goes under the lens,
where I try to bake a muffin.

You do not write as long as you are happy.
I go to the well only when I am thirsty.
We read in the books about growth,
where cells occupy the space
left by separation of walls.
I search for a path within my blocked mind.
I do not write.

Read more of it here.

Grandmother’s Quarantine
My tongue is learning to spell a new word.
Quarantine.
It’s everywhere,
floating like a small bubble.
across the streets
it echoes in children’s voice
it is stuck in my grandmother’s throat
a sharp cry leaves her lips
inside we know,
it’s the end
but somehow we pretend it isn’t.

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